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The years grind grimly on ahead,

Each one more unforgiving,

Until the claims of all your dead

Outweigh those of the living.

You make your way each deadly day

Advancing towards your last,

Until your waxing woes betray

You to the hungry Past.


When dreams that gleam of what’s in store

Grow dim with ash and dust,

Mere failed hopes they sadly seem

And fade, as all things must.

There is no reasoned hope at all;

No shining star to find.

Grim Winter glooms after the Fall.

The best view lies behind.


You choose and draw another one:

One less left fatal breath,

Unsure which is the final one

Before the cup of death.

You know it’s nearer when you feel

A nerve or muscle fail--

The one view that grows clearer

As you reach that shadowed veil.


You are a wood chip in the wind.

We all are, it is true.

Life, time and tide are going on

And will, when you are through.

To grieve at what you must believe

Is folly, prompting sadness.

To weep at one’s mortality

Is nothing else than madness.

My health, morale and situation could be better, but I am not actively dying. The poem is sincere, I am not depressed.  I have lost another friend and mourn still for others.  This poem is a philosophical attempt to come to terms with terminality.
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amberchrome's avatar

Beginning to enter that age myself, when I hear of people I used to see on the convention circuit passing on. I'm here though, if you ever want to talk.

Roesavlon's avatar

nicely written

stillarebel's avatar

Feel for you. I have been there more often than I like to think about. More of my friends and loved ones are gone than remain.

mplumb's avatar

Good poem, sounds like something he would say.

Druid- cowled